


Baby, it's a weird summer romance

by kingsoup



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Torchwood
Genre: M/M, listen this is some niche shit but charowen is a good ship and i'll die on this hill, the dynamic....../kisses fingers.. tasty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 03:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14440671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsoup/pseuds/kingsoup
Summary: Owen visits Paddy's Pub and Charlie is a charming idiot (or maybe Owen is just drunk? it's both).





	Baby, it's a weird summer romance

If Owen was one to shy away from weird situations he definitely wouldn’t have tripped into the career path he did, so really, a worn out pub with shitty bartenders in Philadelphia was just a regular afternoon in the grand scheme of things. And maybe he _did_ just see one of the bartenders drink what he was pretty sure was paint, but really, it didn’t matter all that much; it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he will have seen in his life time, and that is for sure. 

Aside from his original bartender - a scruffy man and the potential aforementioned paint drinker (he still had a bit in his beard for God’s sake) - there were two other (questionable) bartenders arguing in the back of the pub, as well as a woman with a very shrill voice.Scruff didn't seem to be paying them much attention, fixing the appropriate drinks when asked and generally ignoring Owen, allowing him to sort out his thoughts while he swirled the ice in his drink slowly. He was supposed to be in America on a little field trip related to something alien _of course_ and they had tracked the activity to some dingy town with nothing of interest of _bloody_ _course_. Owen had split from the rest of the team under the guise of “research” which was quickly shot down as “you’re getting a bloody drink aren’t you” but he left before anyone could stop him. He had no idea what drew him to this particular hell hole of a bar, but he ended up here none the less and found himself transfixed with the smudge of vivid blue paint on Scruff’s lips and spattered in his beard. Was this man an alien? Was this actually related to the reason he was supposed to be here? Just his luck if that was the case - go to get a drink and end up walking into a pub, underprepared, and right into a bunch of aliens, _annoying_ ones none the less. 

Owen contemplates all of this during his first drink; he decides he should pull out his phone and read more information on the thing it is he is even supposed to be looking for and then if it _is_ , double back to the rest and let them in on what he has found. By the second drink he has decided it would be stupid if this man was an alien, because God, did he surround himself with an annoying group of humans. By the fifth he could hardly care about who this man was and why he was even in America to begin with. Torchwood and all the hell it entails was fuzzy and unimportant in comparison to the way this man worked and cleaned and existed. By the sixth drink he literally only had three thoughts in his mind:

 

1\. This man is an idiot.

2\. If he isn’t an alien, he is probably, absolutely, most likely, going to shag him.

3\. Actually, even if he _is_ an alien, he probably will still shag him because it has been a long and weird day and it might as well get weirder.

 

Owen raises his hand and grabs the bartenders attention. He is now, officially, a man on a mission regardless of how dumb it may be. 

 

“Yeah, dude, what do you need? Do you want another drink?” Scruff asks, reaching for the bottle of vodka. Owen waves his hand.

“No,” he says, before changing his mind and slurring “well, not yet anyways.”

“What do you need then man?” He seems to buzz around in a restless manner, and he realizes he hasn’t seen him really settle the entire time he has been serving him despite Owen being the only real customer in the bar. He doesn’t know what to do with this information, so opts for blurting out something else instead.

“Now, listen, I am going to ask you a question, and it is going to be a little weird bu-“ Owen doesn’t get far into his sentence before the other cuts him off.

“Oh dude what is _up_ with your _accent_? Where the hell are you from?” The doctor sighs heavily and moves his drink to his left hand while he pinches the bridge of his nose with his right. 

“England. I am from England, no-“ 

“Oh _cool_. That’s like, really far away dude.” Scruff cuts him off again. Owen cannot believe he is going to shag this man but at the same time, God he really can. He clears his throat and tries again.

“Listen, please just answer me, are you a bloody alien?” Owen stares at him for a long minute, narrowing his eyes as the other opens his mouth slightly, then closes it again, licking his lips and thinking. Oh Heaven have mercy he has to _think_ about it; Owen finally decides to break contact and takes a swift chug of his drink. 

_“_ Well-“ He nearly spits it out. 

“ _Well?”_ Owen interrupts this time, confusion splashed on his face and the other huffs and splutters. 

“Well I don't _know?”_

_“_ How on Earth can you not _know_?” Scruff leans back slightly raising his hands as Owen snaped back his response. After a beat, the bartender leans forward and points a finger accusingly at Owen. 

“How do _you_ know you’re _not_ an alien?”

“Because I’m a bloody human!” He shouts back, slamming his hand on the bar. To his surprise, the others don’t seem to take notice, as they are caught in an argument of their own. 

“I think I’m a human, but, like, I don't know for sure because I’ve never fucking checked? No one has told me otherwise other than, like, ‘oh Charlie stop doing that weird shit. It’s like you're not even human Charlie what the hell is wrong with you Charlie.’ Oh my God.” He pauses. “Oh my God am I a fucking alien?” Owen can’t do anything other than helplessly stare back at this idiot of a man in bewilderment, and then finally, in absolute amazement as he shouts over to the others “Guys, am I a fucking alien?” 

 

Owen should have taken that extra drink before all of this started. 

 

“No Charlie, you’re not a goddamn alien what the fuck are you talking about?” The woman shouts back, clearly irritated by everything around her.

“This dude just asked me if I was an alien!” Owen groans and puts his head in his hands. Pros of this situation: he probably is not an alien. Cons of this situation: now it is considered a _situation_ when he could have just left the pub drunk and blissfully unaware. 

“What - that British prick? What are you, dude, a goddamn racist? Are you all high and mighty because you're a fucking Brit while all of us are just _lowly_ Americans?” The woman sneers back, waving her hands about as she does. On the other hand, if they had been aliens, he would have at least been given the opportunity to shoot them. 

“This was a misunderstanding,” Owen begins to say, when someone else interrupts him, and Owen is positive he has finally met his match in terms of shitty personalities so he just scowls and rolls his eyes when the other man starts to talk. He deserves this, he thinks, but he doesn’t have to enjoy it.

“Oh, yeah buddy I am sure it is. Everything always is with you posh idiots, isn’t it?” 

“What is that even supposed to _mean_?” Owen spits back before shutting his eyes and exhaling sharply. “You know what? I’m done here; I’m bloody done with all of you and you _sir_ ,” he says while fishing his wallet out of his coat to pay and then stabbing a finger in Scruff’s - _Charlie’s_ \- direction, “you have _paint_ in your beard and you look like a goddamn disaster.” He punctuates his sentence by slamming his money on the counter and unexpectedly, Charlie laughs. 

“Oh, Ha, yeah I do - wait, is that why you asked?” The room is quiet, whatever previous argument dropped by the other three. Owen eyes Charlie, trying to figure out his response, or quite frankly, anything about the current situation.

“Sure,” Owen replies hesitantly. Another beat of silence, and then another man, bulkier than the first groans.

“Charlie, that's disgusting dude!” 

 

 

Owen doesn’t know what possesses him to return to the pub two nights later, because really, it is a terrible pub, but he finds himself in the same stool none the less and this time Charlie doesn’t have paint on his face. Instead, he has grease on his cheekbone and his hair makes it just look up from a fitful sleep. After three drinks, he tells Charlie this.

“Oh what? Where?” He asks when Owen points out the grease. He makes a swiping motion on his own face to try and show him, and after that proves fruitless, he leans over the bar and catches his face in hands to rub it off himself.

“How do you not know where your cheekbone is?” Owen mutters, trying not to be preoccupied with the feeling of Charlie’s beard scratching his hands and thinking about what it might feel like against his own face. Charlie’s gaze flicks over Owen’s lips and he swallows hard. 

“I, uh, I’m sure I could’ve figure it out.” Owen lingers a little too long before sitting back down in his seat and scoffing.

“You could just say ‘thanks,” he smirks and Charlie looks away. He orders another drink.

 

They chat idly for the rest of the night, and it is comfortable and stupid but it works. They argue about stupid shit while they talk, yet the conversation always passes easily onto the next topic. At first, Charlie keeps himself busy by cleaning and fidgeting with glasses and bottles; he likes to watch the way he’d shift from leaning heavily on the counter to jerking up and moving suddenly to do something else. Owen couldn’t tell if he was restless or embarrassed with the way he moved about but he preferred to think Charlie was also growing a little fond of him. For the most part, the same as the other night, the other three (plus a very old, gremlin of a man) let Charlie work while they shouted in the background. After about an hour, Owen laughs as Charlie starts to drink with him.

“Is it normal in America for the bartenders to drink with the customers?” He asks propping his chin up in his hand, still smiling. 

“Nah, this is a Paddy’s Pub exclusive kind of deal,” Charlie chuckles as he puts the beer bottle to his mouth. By now, Charlie has moved to the customer side of the bar so Owen leans a little too easily into the other as he talks, not that he seems to mind - instead he knocks his knees with Owen when they laugh which encourages Owen to move closer. 

 

He isn’t sure how long it takes him to get out of there with Charlie. To be honest, he isn’t even sure how he got Charlie to come with him, as he was understandably hesitant to leave the pub behind but after yelling (shouting, screaming, screeching - they were a noisy bunch and Owen desperately wanted to get some place quiet but he was stubbornly fond of Charlie’s company) something at the gang, the two stumbled out of the pub. 

“Are you sure they walk customers home in England? It seems, uh, like a hassle having to walk _every_ customer back to their place after a drink, y’know.” Charlie comments to Owen as he bumps elbows with the other. It is a warm night, so they really don’t have to be walking so close to each other, but they are and that is what matters. Owen hums in agreement, absentmindedly remembering that is what he told Charlie to get him out of there.

“Bartenders only walk home the customers that they like.” He glances at Charlie out of the corner of his eye only to see the shorter is already looking back at him. 

“Who says I like you?” Charlie snorts in response. He looks away and scratches his beard when Owen looks back but Owen grins anyways.

“You’re walking me home, aren’t you?” Charlie shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at the sky, so Owen does too. It is nice night to make out with a stranger, he thinks, and probably the closest he’ll get to a summer romance. 

“Fuck, I guess I am.” 

 

Owen _knows_ it isn’t long after that before they both dart around a corner into an alley and they become a mess of hands and kisses. Owen leads, still unsure if Charlie even understands this is where the night was heading, by pulling him close by his elbow as he turns the corner. He yelps as he is pushed against the wall and Owen leans in, eyes half-lidded and staring right into his. He definitely catches on after that, licking his lips quickly and then moving right into Owen’s. He isn’t surprised that he is sloppy or that doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands; he doesn’t even mind the way his beard scratches against his own face. Instead he just pins Charlie securely against the wall while he slows down his kisses so he gets the hang of it, and moves one of Charlie’s hands to his back while he uses his other to cup Charlie’s jaw. 

 

They stay there for awhile, slowing at points and quickening, deepening at others and the other one of Charlie’s hand finally finds its way to the back of Owen’s head, threading his fingers through his hair and pulling him in closer so their bodies are pressed as closely as they can together. Neither of them say anything, so Owen lets his mind wander, thinking about how well they fit together, how dirty Charlie is but how he probably doesn’t mind it, and how he _definitely_ wouldn’t mind getting Charlie into a shower with him. But for now, the night is nice, no one is bothering them, there's the soft hum of the city around them, and Owen has no where else he wants to be, so he keeps kissing, and kissing, and _kissing_. 

 

Owen doesn’t take Charlie home that night, but thats alright - he’ll be back at the pub in another few days anyways. 

 

 


End file.
